The Dying Borders Of That Fading World

Somewhere far enough away to be beyond reach, there was a girl who was just a little too perfect. Her flaws were endearing enough that it was infuriating. Nothing was ever her fault. No consequence ever lasted. She never learned anything new. Even so, to many, she was well-beloved, best-beloved. She wasn’t real. But all the same, she was there, sitting on the edge of a little rocky outcropping, the seat of her jeans getting wet from the way it was always damp and stormy and night time, no matter the time of day or year. The clouds always hung low there, purple and roiling. The smell of salt was always thick in the air.

She loved that spot, and hated it, all the same. She loved watching the ocean, and hated it, all the same. There were no ships coming in. It was always high tide. At best, when she looked up, she’d see gulls. At worst, she’d see ravens or crows, or maybe a fallen angel.

She existed in a state of perpetual waiting, torn out of everything she’d known, given up to a new world where she fell in love a thousand times over, and then she was forgotten. The world fell apart. Fragments of it exist, still, in the minds of the gods that made it, but it would never be made whole again. All the forgotten lives within it roamed like ghosts, never again touching for more than a moment. Never again finding peace. She could hear the echoes of their laughter. She held to memories that mocked her, promised her that at one time, gods moved heaven and earth for her.

Not just for her — all of the people of that world. But that time was long since past.

Just outside of the dying borders of that fading world, starfield eyes watched over them all, trying to keep them safe, trying to keep them loved. Even the too-perfect girl who never did anything anymore but cry prettily, and stare out to the horizon, forever waiting.